


Skipping Stones

by bridgelea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Finger Sucking, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Stakeout
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 09:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bridgelea/pseuds/bridgelea
Summary: This is not the kind of thing they do.  John isn’t gay, and Sherlock is… who knows.  Asexual would have been John’s best guess.  Might have to reevaluate that.  Later.





	1. Chapter 1

“You could sleep," Sherlock murmurs. " I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

“You’re the one who needs sleep," says John. "It’s been three days.”

“Not tired.”

They’re ridiculously close, wedged against each other. The 10-foot section of concrete pipe is a perfect hiding place, overlooking the floor of the abandoned warehouse where Sherlock is certain a small-arms deal will happen tonight. They can’t quite see below unless one of them sticks his head out, but they’ll be able to hear if anyone gets close.

The trouble is the diameter of the pipe, which can’t be more than three and a half feet.

They started out side by side, but that was an hour ago and they’ve been shifting and adjusting their positions, trying to get comfortable. Somehow they’ve rotated and Sherlock has wound up nearly on top of John, and while the weight of him isn’t unbearable, Sherlock’s quiet fidgeting against his groin is causing blood to rush southward

“Christ, Sherlock. Hold still.” John tries to angle his hips so the contact isn’t quite so … pelvic, but Sherlock has him pinned, and John’s squirming is only making it worse.

Sherlock huffs out a quiet chuckle. “Problem?” he whispers.

Dammit, he’s doing it on purpose. "Stop it. Sherlock!”

Sherlock goes still for a moment and then grinds against him again, clearly intentional this time. And that’s perfect, just lovely, John thinks with silent exasperation. He officially has an erection now. It’s pressing against Sherlock’s groin, and there’s no way the world’s most observant man hasn’t noticed. 

Christ, it’s embarrassing. But then again, it’s only physics, isn’t it? Just a biological response to friction applied in the right place. Sherlock would be reacting the same way, if only he had a normal — 

Oh.

He stops thinking about his own body for an instant and considers Sherlock’s, which is pressed against John and — yes. Interesting, that. Apparently Sherlock’s cock _does_ work.

They’re both still while Sherlock no doubt follows John’s thought process down to the second. 

Then Sherlock moves again, an even more deliberate grind, groin to groin, that makes John’s cock throb. John hesitates for a moment, and then tilts his hips up slightly for more contact, because two can play at this game, dammit. And Sherlock sucks in a breath and grinds again, even harder.

Right. Apparently this is happening.

This is not the kind of thing they do. John isn’t gay, and Sherlock is… who knows. Asexual would have been John’s best guess. Might have to reevaluate that. Later. 

Now, here, in the darkness and the silence of the cavernous warehouse, with the tension of the stakeout thick around them, insulating them from the outside world, they’re doing this. Right.

John hits his mental pause button — not enough blood flow to his brain right now, anyway — and gives himself over to his senses: the tantalizing friction against his cock, the smell of the body above him — citrus shampoo, coffee and wool, and the sound of Sherlock’s breathing, now unmistakably aroused. And — god— arousing. Sherlock doesn’t do this, he doesn’t give himself over to this kind of pleasure, and John can only marvel at the unexpectedness of what they're doing.

Sherlock thrusts sharply and then holds his breath and shudders, goes still. Then John feels him exhale raggedly and it’s even warmer down there. Christ, Sherlock’s just come, and he’d expected this to last longer, but somehow the knowledge of it sends John straight to the edge and he thrusts again and comes himself with one long exhalation against Sherlock’s neck.

Christ, they’ve both just come in their pants. In a concrete pipe somewhere in Southampton. 

And the thing is, it doesn’t even feel that strange. It feels intimate, but in a friendly way. Two mates with nothing better to do. 

Is this what it’s like at those posh public schools Sherlock went to? Rites of passage, male bonding rituals?

It’s kind of nice, thinks John, that he and Sherlock know exactly how the other is feeling right now, that boneless post-orgasmic lassitude that never seems to creep over women in quite the same way. He so rarely knows what’s going on inside Sherlock’s head, never quite feels like they’re functioning on the same plane. It’s … nice, this.

“ _Now_ I’m tired,” Sherlock whispers. John giggles; he can’t help it. Sherlock giggles too, his nose in John’s hair, his body now heavy and relaxed against John’s. 

It’s… nice.

They fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s bloody cold,” John complains. The concrete wall of the pipe feels like ice; he wishes he’d thought to take off his scarf and put it under his head.

“It’s your fault we didn’t get them a month ago when it was warmer,” Sherlock whispers beside him.

“My fault? _My fault?_ ”

Sherlock hums and shifts.

“We both fell asleep,” John hisses. “We _both_ …you know.”

Sherlock chuckles. “Fair enough.”

He shifts again against John and in the ensuing silence it feels like the temperature in the pipe rises 20 degrees. 

They haven’t talked about what happened the last time they were here. John’s taken to thinking of it as a crazy one-off, like the time Sherlock collected John’s toenail clippings or the week he spent speaking only Finnish.

But now they’re back in the same place, in the same position. 

Sherlock smells the same.

John feels Sherlock’s head bend close to his ear, hears the silky baritone, just above a whisper. “Can you stay awake this time?”

“Yes,” he breathes, because that’s almost always his answer to Sherlock, and Sherlock ruts gently against him, and John hadn’t noticed himself getting hard but suddenly he’s so aroused he's lightheaded.

This time Sherlock has one hand down at his side, and he moves it between them. John feels a tug on his zip, and he sucks in his breath as Sherlock’s hand wanders inside his jeans. 

Now would be the time to tell Sherlock to stop. This is utterly mad, he thinks. Beyond inappropriate. Preposterous.

But somehow it just feels lightheartedly clandestine and really, really good. Agile fingers snake past the waistband of his pants; Sherlock’s hand is warm and calloused and without thinking John is thrusting gently into Sherlock’s strokes. Sherlock Holmes is giving him a hand job. He’s going to come in Sherlock’s hand, _Sherlock’s_ hand, just the thought of it and it’s happening, pulsing and pulsing over Sherlock’s fingers. It’s filthy and intimate and even better than the last time.

Sherlock’s breathing is unsteady and he’s hard against John’s hip, and John would reciprocate, but there’s no way he can rotate his shoulder enough to put his arm down; the space is far too tight. “Touch yourself,” John whispers, astonished at his own audacity. John hears Sherlock’s zip, feels Sherlock take himself in hand. Sherlock’s fingers must be slippery with John’s come, he realizes, and it’s ridiculous what a turn-on that is. 

Then John has a brilliant idea. Sherlock’s free hand is fisted against John’s neck. Twisting his shoulder a little, John catches it with his left hand and tugs it toward his face. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to take Sherlock’s index and middle fingers in his mouth.

The effect is immediate and gratifying. Sherlock makes a shocked, needy sound in the back of his throat and strokes himself faster and yes, John’s definitely going to have to revise all those assumptions about Sherlock’s sexuality. John sucks wetly, swirls his tongue around the long fingers, tastes traces of tobacco and probably whatever chemicals Sherlock was playing with this morning, but he barely notices. He’s imagining Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, which isn’t nearly as alarming as it should be. 

John wonders what Sherlock is thinking as he fucks John’s mouth with his fingers. Whatever it is, it’s not long before he whimpers and goes limp against John. 

And there’s that feeling again. They’re panting like they’ve just chased down a suspect, but this is more intimate. They’ve done this together, for each other.

Their breathing slows and the silence stretches out. It’s not uncomfortable.

A door clanks somewhere on the factory floor below. “They’re here. Text Lestrade,” Sherlock whispers, and shimmies past John out of the pipe.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dimmock’s informant said Lipton went in over an hour ago,” Sherlock says, drumming on the console of the unmarked car. He checks his phone again. They’re parked on a dark side street in Mayfair, waiting for a robbery suspect to emerge from a club.

“I still say If he’s likely to have the necklace, we’re better off going in and taking him,” John says.

“There’s a chance he doesn’t. And a chance he’ll lead us somewhere helpful. There are other threads we need to tie up.”

“Meanwhile our entire evening is tied up with this bloody stakeout which is likely pointless,” John grumbles. “I’m starving.” 

His disapproval registers in silence for twenty seconds.

“The word ‘stakeout’ is... oddly arousing,” says Sherlock.

“Can’t imagine why,” John says.

It’s been a week since their second encounter in the pipe. John’s tried not to think about it, because he still has no idea what to think. Sherlock’s been his usual self and John’s done his best not to feel awkward, but they’ve… well, they’ve had sex, technically. Twice. Is this something they do?

Sherlock’s hand has left the console and is reaching for John’s lap. He leans across the car and looks at John’s crotch with obvious intent. 

“May I?” he asks, and this is when John should say no, he’s not gay, they’re on a public street, they —

Instead he nods, and chokes back a groan as Sherlock pulls on John's zip and lowers his head.

Sherlock parts his lips almost reverently, exploring John’s cock with a mix of sumptuousness and precision that is so uniquely him that John's smiling over gritted teeth. 

“Of course you’re fantastic at this,” he gasps. 

Sherlock responds to the praise by taking more of him in, out again and in deeper, and John has to close his eyes against the velvet waves of sensation. “You're meant to be watching the exit,” Sherlock murmurs, not breaking rhythm. 

John laughs and complies. At this point he’d do anything to keep those lips around his cock. 

He wonders if Sherlock is getting off on this. He wonders what would happen if he ran his fingers through the dark curls on his lap. He wonders how they got here and where they’re going. 

Then he feels the first prickling of his orgasm and rides it, stops wondering. Sherlock's mouth is hot and fast and willing, and it's the best blow job John's had in years. When Lipton walks out of the exit, John is seconds away, and when he gasps, “There he is,” he’s almost finished spurting in Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock sits up, wipes his lips and turns the ignition. 

“Alone, as I predicted. And he’s headed for that storefront in Islington, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

By the time John’s got his breath back, they’re halfway there. 

***

Lipton is headed to Islington, but it’s outside a flower shop in Hatfield twelve hours later that his luck finally runs out. 

John's hoarse from shouting at Lipton, Dimmock and Sherlock. Sherlock's got bloodstains on another of his designer shirts. John wants to go home and collapse into bed, but there's a witness to interview and a mountain of paperwork back at the station, and Dimmock doesn't bend the rules like Lestrade.

They wait in a windowless conference room. Sherlock is jittery with fatigue and maybe something else. John looks at him and remembers Sherlock's head in his lap.

He walks to the door and locks it. "It's not fair," he says, turning.

Sherlock looks up from his phone.

"You've had my cock in your hand and your mouth," John says. "It's not fair."

“Not fair to whom?” Sherlock asks, his eyes wide and dark.

John doesn’t answer. He backs Sherlock up until he's sitting on the table, and then he unzips Sherlock's trousers.

"Is this okay?" he whispers. Sherlock nods.

Sherlock is hard almost instantly. John's hand is too dry and the angle is awkward but it's only a few minutes of light strokes before Sherlock's clearly close, head thrown back, body arching into John's hand.

“Fuck,” Sherlock moans. “Oh, fuck.” John has never heard that word from those posh lips and it’s so damn hot. He wants to lean closer and kiss that pale neck, mark it —

Sherlock swears again and pulses in his hand, and John doesn't take his eyes off him until Sherlock turns his head. 

John gets a serviette and wipes his hand while Sherlock watches. He unlocks the door just before Dimmock knocks.


End file.
